


Broken Windows

by FHC_Lynn



Series: Broken Windows [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crack, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Bondage, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Torture, Violence, robot gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 12,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The migration has started, so if you don't find what you were looking for here, please follow the series link! All the little bits have been given their own headings now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Volume - Jazz/Prowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Rizobact, tumblr prompt: things you said too quietly.
> 
> Next: [Crescendo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13171867)

Sometimes, Jazz wished the thrice-damned mech came with a volume setting that he could crank all the way up to maximum. The mech needed to cut loose. To scream or shout or just _laugh_ out loud. Jazz knew all about the uses of silence. In his line of work, the silence defined his success more often than a high decibel count. But in the relative safety of a home base, Prowl never, ever let himself get above a 'quiet conversation' volume. On the battlefield, it still didn't get past 'need to be heard in crowded room'.

And it just ate at him worse than a bad case of rust that it bothered no one else. Not even Blaster, who always muted himself around Prowl. A courtesy Blaster didn't even offer Optimus. Pit, Ratchet didn't even shout at Prowl. But what really got him, _he_ adopted that same quiet. He just found himself automatically falling into it, and it drove him crazy.

Maybe if the mech _smiled_ sometimes, he could have dealt with the quiet. So he didn't socialize with Prowl. It depressed him. It messed with his head and fragged his temper, and that threw him off his game. Finding himself standing pede to pede with the mech, snarling in his face caught him more off guard than it did Prowl.

Optimus decided to call the tactical meeting at that point. Jazz stormed out, not waiting to hear Prime call him for a chat or for Ironhide to snicker. And the back of his processor just wished Prowl would react. Say something, _anything_ , just say it loud right back. In the privacy of his own quarters, he kicked an innocent chair before throwing himself face down across his bed. Turning off his comms and silencing the room's intercom, Jazz settled in for a good, long sulk.

He didn't care if he was unprofessional. He didn't care if he was being ridiculous. Most of all, he didn't care what anyone had to say about it.

When his door opened, Jazz sat up fully intending to take apart the responsible mech. Only three mechs he knew of on base could have done it, and two were under his authority. And Wheeljack wouldn't dare. Prowl's bland face had not been within Jazz's expectations. Definitely not within his wants. Glad for the visor, Jazz pointed at the door. "Breakin' an' enterin's against the regs. mech."

"So is shouting during a conference, Commander," Prowl murmured back. After fixing the door pad, he came inside. It slid shut naturally. Jazz didn't snarl. He was proud of himself.

"I didn' invite you in."

"So your offer to turn me over your knee is invalid?"

Jazz reset his audials, and not because Prowl had changed his volume. But he might have blown Jazz's processor. "You...heard that?"

"As it happens, the only thing you said in a reasonable tone of voice, I was quite deaf for. Ironhide, however, was quite happy to relay your offer. Is it invalid or not?" Prowl walked over to the standard issue desk. He righted the chair and folded down into it, facing Jazz. Hands folded in his lap in front of him, Prowl looked like a propaganda poster for stiff authoritarianism.

"The frag you mean 'deaf', mech--"

"My auxiliary panels are quite sensitive to vibrations. While I can divert extra resources to their function, and can perform soft reboots on the attendant firmware to speed my recovery and mitigate the liability of that in battle, it still requires a time inversely related to the decibel range I am assaulted by," Prowl said, cutting in.

Jazz stared at him, thinking. "You never flinch when the artillery is flying."

"Again, I can mitigate that, provided I have some expectation of it coming. You often surprise me; your control is excellent, until it breaks. I am designed to stalk my targets in much the same capacity as you are. When I served in that function, their sensitivity helped far more than it hindered. It is only now, in working with you, that I am at a crossroads," Prowl said. "You stated that you wished 'to turn me over your knee and spank me until I scream'. From this, I can only surmise that the quiet I cultivate around me as a precaution is not sitting well with you. If I did scream for you, where I am safe to be at that disadvantage, would that be enough to end this conflict?"

Jazz sat up, keeping close watch on Prowl as he did so, then stood up. "Are you propositioning me?"

"Weren't you propositioning me?"

"What's in this for you?" Jazz asked as he closed the distance to the chair. Leaning down, he grasped both chair arms. Prowl looked back at him, across those inches, and Jazz saw the panels lift at the edge of his vision.

"A safe space, if you can gave it to me." Prowl's hands unfolded then reached up to press against Jazz's shoulders. "Is your offer invalid?"

"Naw, mech. We can work that out."

And then Prowl finally smiled at him.


	2. One Wanted Guest - Prowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Bibliotecaria_D, tumblr meme prompt: guest.
> 
> Next: [A Wanted Touch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/12608735)

"As you say, Commander," Prowl replied. Auxiliary panels held stiff and fingers moving across the glyph selection window of his desk's display field, Prowl kept his optics on his work. The unwavering demeanor never failed to send Commander Jazz packing. Sometimes, Prowl fancifully wondered if this guest would meet himself coming when he left. "The data _does_ suggest a security breach. My preliminary estimation is that the perpetrator is on the fifth or sixth security tier."

"Frag."

Panels flicking in annoyance, Prowl called up several screens of footage. "It will take me some time to track down the leak, sir. A week, to be generous. I will suggest raising the security level regarding our plans for the Kalis defense."

"Yeah. I'll take that on up. You okay, kid? Look, I understand it's hard. This is all messed up. But you can come to me, okay?" Now Prowl looked up. He wondered what the commander thought he understood. Everyone said that to. 'Come talk' and 'we understand'. Worse, 'it'll be okay'. Jazz continued, leaning forward, "We can talk. We're in this together, Prowl."

"Yes, sir. I understand. Perhaps later. This must be attended to..."

"Sure, sure. Ping me when you've got a suspect list."

"Yes, sir." Prowl watched the special operations division commander leave and waited to be certain the mech would not return before he pinged the door with a locking sequence. Then he stood up and stepped around his desk. In the cramped office, no one questioned the guest chair's position against the wall. It blocked the ventilation grille, but Prowl always claimed to be cold. Moving the chair aside, he crouched in front of the grille. It took only a light pull to free it from the magnetic fasteners. He looked down at his second guest. "I warned you that the activity would alert them."

Ravage's audials flicked. "Your office is clean?"

"You need to ask? Come inside. You look silly in there. They believe me devastated by circumstances and hateful. And I checked."

After crawling inside, Ravage folded up his hindquarters to sit. He canted his head to the side and flicked one audial. "Well. You _are_ , aren't you?"

"You know that," Prowl whispered. He sat in front of Ravage and held out his arms. "But I'm free now. Praxus is gone. And we will win."

Ravage stepped up, radiating satisfaction. "We will. We will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise?


	3. A Wanted Touch - Prowl/Soundwave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-explicit plug & play, consent debatable.  
> Written for Infamy, for the Tumblr prompt: Soundwave, 'if looks could kill'
> 
> Follows: [One Wanted Guest](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/11591770)

Processing the data stream his symbiotes uploaded via their bonds, Soundwave watched several groups of Autobots around this miserable planet they had been stranded on. Only Ravage's feed truly held his attention. Wings high and armor flared in the bright sun, Prowl frowned at the humans on the scaffolding. Beside him, Jazz gestured and spoke with great animation. A mimic of the first order, that one; his agitated chatter blended right in with the way the humans clearly argued. The streaming feed prompted Soundwave that the humans on the scaffold governed this particular region. The felinoid's straining sensors told Soundwave that this meeting had been arranged in regard to the last Decepticon attack.

Prowl's wings dipped in acknowledgement of some point, and Soundwave felt a stir of pride. As long as it had taken to decode and counter Prowl's behavioral governing program after acquiring him from Praxus, Soundwave still felt that surge every time his own programming held. The last time Soundwave had been able to perform a systems check, Prowl's baseline and Soundwave's own reprogramming had meshed almost seamlessly. Now, Ravage reported few, if any glitches of counter-purpose tics in Prowl's outward persona. The meshed coding structure passed the Autobots' best medic, Ratchet, though Soundwave credited the medic's overwork for that miracle. Watching Prowl, Soundwave missed the mech more than ever.

And when Jazz's hand all too casually rested on Prowl's shoulder as they walked away, when Jazz leaned in close, fury bloomed afresh in Soundwave, freezing Ravage in the echoing protocols across their bond for precious seconds. Soundwave calmed himself in time for Ravage to slip deeper into his cover between the humans' vehicles. Through his symbiote, Soundwave watched Jazz pause with Prowl at the end of the vehicles' storage lot. He watched Jazz pull Prowl into a hold. He knew his programming allowed Prowl to return the embrace with that low, pleasant purr. Soundwave had intended for Prowl to cultivate Jazz from the very beginning.

But his visor still flared with fury in real time. Prowl was _his_. When the Decepticons had won this forsaken war, Soundwave would see to Jazz's death himself.

As he watched the pair part ways at the edge of the lot, Soundwave calmed himself further. Soundwave's hiding place was one hour's drive away. He would only need to wait. These quiet, brief encounters soothed him. He watched from his hidden vantage in the human's utilities station when Prowl finally made the turn off into the tiny facility and unfolded from his alt mode. Risky as meeting was, Soundwave needed to tend to Prowl's reprogramming, now that they had woken here on this planet. He pulled Prowl into the shadows with him,as soon as the mech came close. Sliding his hands beneath Prowl's wing, Soundwave pulled the mech's body tight to his own. He sought out Prowl's ventral data access with his released, self-guiding cables.

Prowl groaned, head falling back as the data stream synced up. Soundwave braced his own back against a service shed. Only after carefully checking Prowl's code for errors and tampering did he lower his own firewalls. He established the access networking between them, enjoying Prowl's excited wiggle. Manipulating the connection, Soundwave activated the line of sensory filaments along the upper edge of Prowl's auxiliary panels. Prowl gasped and returned the favor in tagging the neural connections for the symbiotes' emergency release system. Overhead, Laserbeak called softly. Soundwave fumbled through opening a quantum line to the flight-frame symbiote. Prowl loved to share the symbiote's view of them together. Connected, armor flared, heat rising.

Burying himself in the exchange, trading one ghost touch for the next, neither lasted long. 

After, when Prowl rebooted limply in his hold, Soundwave stroked the mech's curves and angles with his hands. Praxus created works of art in its mechs. Each one had been a vision of perfection. Soundwave's hands crossed and tightened beneath the mech's ample bumper, remembering Jazz. Remembering Prime's memory in Prowl's cortex. So smug and certain in their defense of the old ways. When Prowl recovered, Soundwave let him get back on the road toward his next destination.But he remembered, and he promised himself that soon he would have Prowl all to himself again. Jazz would be dead, and the old ways overthrown.


	4. Crescendo - Jazz/Prowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G1-ish, BDSM themes
> 
> A couple of people really, really wanted to see more. I tried. They have said it's good.
> 
> So, gifting this to Rizobact and dragonofdispair. Follows [Volume](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/11527966).

"Are you ready?"

"Are you?" Prowl asked, chin lifted and head canted to the side. His soft, smooth voice maintained work-volume, and Jazz made a face, listening to it.

He could not blame Prowl for asking. Jazz trusted his own precautions, but Prowl lived with a measure of caution equal to his own. This was the first real test of their arrangement. Jazz almost expected to hear Prowl call the whole thing off.

"Sit down," he ordered instead of answering Prowl's question. Jazz moved to the door to key in the silencing sequence he had hacked into it over the past few weeks. No alarms or sounds would come into Jazz's quarters. Everything would be piped into his internal comm directly. He had reworked the system to resist any hacking attempts as well. Not even Bumblebee should be able to get inside now. It had taken time to route and shift everything to his standards. Watching Prowl balance primly on the edge of the seat, wings high and wide, he knew his care would be rewarded. Quietly, he continued, "I read over the specs that you shared. Your encryption is impressive, by the way. You have an _impressive_ sensor suite I'm surprised more of your processor isn't dedicated to it."

"A significant portion is handled through my tactical calculations," Prowl admitted. His wings waved lazily, drawing Jazz's gaze to them. "Shall I reduce their function?"

"No. Leave runnin' normal," Jazz murmured, walking up behind the mech. Prowl's wings perked in confusion, and Jazz put both hands between them, over the light bar. That legacy of Prowl's days as a law enforcer wasn't sensitive, but the joints of his panels were, Jazz knew. He stroked his hands toward them and enjoyed the hitch of the Praxian's systems. "There won't be any surprises that'll hurt. I read those specs real careful, mech. Relax."

Prowl turned to look at him, optics dim. Slowly, the wings lowered, and Jazz smiled. He pulled the modified stasis cuffs from his subspace. While he wasn't the type for bondage play, Jazz felt some concern that he might hurt himself. Mechs lost in sensation, sometimes, didn't stop to think. Slipping the fingers of his free hand under edge of Prowl's helm, Jazz stroked his fingers over tense cabling. Softly, he said, "Hands behind the chair. These aren't standard. I modified them to only slow your reactions down."

"So no turning me over your knee?" Prowl asked, his tone edging toward sly. Lifting his wings, Prowl obeyed the command. Prowl's enjoyment of the submissive position had been the surprise. And made Jazz even more cautious. His processor had suggested so many modifications to his particular skills that could be bent that way... He closed the padded cuffs on Prowl's wrists, activating them, then he leaned against the mech's back, arms out, to press his hands firmly to the sensitive, flicking panels.

Prowl gasped as Jazz moved his fingers in slow, even circles over the dual colored surface. Jazz smiled to himself. He pushed a little harder, and Prowl hung his head, frame shuddering. In his own irritation over the mech's aura of quiet, he had missed how touch-shy the mech was. After Jazz's own outburst, after Prowl's break and enter of his quarters, after getting the mech's sensor specs-- Jazz turned up his subwoofers, keeping the volume too low for normal auditory hearing.

To someone with Prowl's refined senses, the frequency had physical weight, like the mech had been dipped in warm oil. Every sensor lit up, spinning and pulsing with sudden charge, and Prowl's voice filled Jazz's audials, rising in counterpoint to the music only they heard. Jazz modulated the note higher and higher, until Prowl's voice broke in that promised scream with Jazz holding it closer than he had anything before it.


	5. Choices - Megatron, Sideswipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning : mentioned coercion for rape, blackmail, mind games
> 
> Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Sideswipe/Megatron- "do you want pleasure or death?"
> 
> Next: [Promises Made](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/12893290), [Things Needed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13066888l), and [Slow Change](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13273684)

"I know I'm gorgeous, but don't _you_ got somethin' better to do than stare at me?"

At the moment, the prisoner in his holding cell shouldn't claim beauty, but Megatron decided to ignore that. Left pede missing, the opposite arm bent at a horrifying angle, and that side of his face and chest scraped to the raw core of uncolored dermas beneath, the Autobot had better claim on looking like a pile of scrap. Narrowing his optics, Megatron weighed his answer for the deepest hit. So much time between then and now. What did the child call himself now? 

"I remember you."

Cracked optics narrowed, then widened in well-played confusion. The mech had learned to school his expressions well early on; Megatron remembered. His captive began to speak in a bright taunting tone, "Did I smash your face in earlier? Dent your bucket? It was all kinda busy out there, y'see..."

"In the slums. You've come a long way from there, but you're still selling your body. Tell me, does your Prime know what manner of thing serves him?" The beaten warrior knew how to keep his cool all too well. Megatron tapped the controls for the door, savoring the mech's wary scuttle on the bare ledge of the recharge shelf. Megatron entered the cell with careful deliberation in each step. "Tell me, does he use you for more than dealing death? Does he use your body to slack his lust after battle? Or does he prefer your golden brother?"

The mech flinched, and Megatron allowed a smile to form. Now he had the mech. "I remember you. Twins. Do you enjoy that shared pleasure? Is it pleasure to feel him rutting on your other half?"

The mech closed his optics and looked away. Megatron assumed he shut down his audials as well. Leaning over the heavily injured mech, Megatron grasped the dented jawline. The fractured lenses of the mech's optics lit up again, angry and hurt. "Do you want that pleasure, mech, or do you want death for all those who would use you?"

"You're a crazy fragger. We weren't--" The mech lifted his good arm to shove at Megatron, but he had no strength left.

Megatron stroked a thumb over the mech's lips, realizing the bottom had cracked. "Does your brother enjoy what's done to him? Do _you_? Do you believe in their vision of the world? The vision they feed you? What if there could be a different world built for you?"

"Get smelted," the warrior whispered. Megatron's smile widened as his prisoner flinched. Almost now. "Get lost. Ain't switchin' sides for crazy talk."

"Is it crazy? To ask what you want? Tell me, who uses you, if not your Prime?" Megatron shook his head as the mech tried to pull away. He tightened his grip to keep the mech's optics on him. "Both of you are no better off than before, are you? It's all so much worse. What do _you_ want?"

The warrior shuddered, throat structure working to swallow. The blue of his optics darkened in pain. Repeating the light caress across the mech's injured mouth, Megatron smeared a dark splash of the mech's fluids. The prisoner trembled, and Megatron vented slowly. "Together, we can make it all end."


	6. Promises Made - Megatron, Sideswipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G1-ish  
> References to rape, very uncomfortable conversation  
> Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Megatron/Sideswipe—"I don't care to explain."
> 
> Follows [Choices](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/11314114)  
> Next: [Things Needed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13066888l) and [Slow Change](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13273684)

Sideswipe remained, and his brother had followed, lured by Megatron's promises. Even repaired, Sideswipe injuries remained hideous, but Megatron had not touched him to offer detailing. No one had touched Sideswipe beyond those repairs, because Sideswipe had not asked them. The relief in him had been palpable--as much as the embarrassment over his appearance. After his own arrival, stolen away by Skywarp during a skirmish, Sunstreaker had snatched the detailing supplies when offered, angry and struggling to hide his own fear. Neither being officers, the defecting warriors offered no information, and Megatron expected they had none. But such fine, powerful mechs. Hardened and trained in a way Megatron had recognized, just as he had recognized them through the battle modifications. They both gleamed against the dull halls of his base when Sunstreaker had finished his task with meticulous attention to their detailing.

Waiting for Sideswipe to reach for him had been nigh impossible; Megatron's already thin patience had nearly slipped out of his control more times than he wanted to count. But touching Sideswipe, or his brother, first meant losing them both. His army, at least, feared them too much to make any stupid moves. When Sideswipe had finally touched him, the mech's hands moved with such skill. Such deliberate, educated skill. Megatron had blown a relay struggling with his own desire. But he had won his battle and pushed Sideswipe and Sunstreaker both away, each in their turn.

Predictably, Sideswipe had reached out again after that. Post battle, Sideswipe caught him in the empty common wash room after Megatron had finally left the medical suite. Megatron knew the twins had been reluctant, but when they had thrown themselves fully behind the battle, the battle had turned. Now Megatron again summoned the will to push Sideswipe's hands away, and the warrior reached for Megatron's jaw, as Megatron had grabbed his down in the cell. Megatron looked down at him, arching both brow plates. Sideswipe traced his thumb over the rebel leader's mouth, and Megatron finally spoke, "Sideswipe?"

"How did you know us? You didn't frag us before. We would remember."

"You aren't the only ones with a past that haunts them, Sideswipe." Megatron reached up, catching the mech's wrist, though he did not pull Sideswipe's hand away. "I don't care to explain mine."

"But you know ours. That's not fair," Sideswipe whispered. "Prime knew. And he wouldn't tell us how. And he... First, he acted like you are now. Then..."

"Then he decided that he wanted your brother. That you could be available to his officers. At least some of them had the grace to be appalled, hmm? No," Megatron repeated his denial. He pulled Sideswipe's hand free of his face now, only to press a chaste kiss into the mech's palm. "I do not owe you my story. I asked you to fight for me. I gave you my plan for Cybertron. I gave you the better offer, did I not?"

"Yes. I don't... I don't want-- Please?" Sideswipe pulled his hand away, looking at it and Megatron. Wariness crept into his expression.

"I keep my promises, Sideswipe. No one here will ask for more than your skills on the battlefield. The skills you offered in trade for a part in my plan."

"And you won't want us in your bed, too?"

"If you wanted me, I would take both of you. But you don't want me, Sideswipe. Nor does your brother. I will take nothing from a mech he will not give me. Go," Megatron set his hand on the mech's shoulder and turned Sideswipe away to the wash room door. "Get your fuel. Recharge with your brother."

"If... If we did want you? If I wanted you?" Sideswipe asked, but his hunched posture and his shuffling pedes made the question a lie.

"If you ever do want me, either of you, then you may come to me. I will not go to you. For now, fuel and rest."

Only glancing back once, at the doorway, before slipping away, Sideswipe left in silence. Megatron watched him go, optics dark, but his expression carefully controlled. He would not make the mistakes Prime had made with them. Fate willing, they would not be the last to flock to his side.

But oh, how he wanted them.


	7. Things Needed - Megatron, Sunstreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Content Advisory: References to rape, very uncomfortable conversation  
> Prompt: Written for the dialogue challenge. And because a couple of folks expressed interest in seeing more.
> 
> Follows [Choices](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/11314114) and [Promises Made](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/12893290)  
> Next: [Slow Change](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13273684)

"What game are you playing?"

Megatron turned from watching Hook tend Sideswipe's latest injuries inside what passed for his would-be army's medical suite. The loyalists' bitterness at their loss showed in the horror of split red dermas. Sparking wires, bleeding hoses, and fragile protometal cut open beneath. Megatron looked at Sunstreaker, standing by him in the archway marking the border. The golden twin had fared only somewhat better than his brother. Sunstreaker had carried Sideswipe back, and Megatron heard the strain in the mech's creaking joints. But all the peeling blue spattered across him appeared to belong to someone else. "War is not a game, Sunstreaker. You know what as well as I do."

"With _us_ , you bent cog," Sunstreaker hissed. He stood close now, and Megatron saw the shallow dents in his plating. "What game are you playing? You haven't... Sideswipe said you were waiting on us to hit on you or some ash pile--but you turned him down."

"Do you want to have this conversation here?" Megatron asked, choosing his words with care. Both his newest warriors felt understandably sensitive about their treatment by the loyalists. But they also loathed being alone. With anyone. Megatron watched Sunstreaker's jaw clench. Sunstreaker glanced to Sideswipe under Hook's skilled hands. Following that gaze, Megatron saw Sideswipe watching them. He waited, then Sunstreaker surprised him by grabbing his arm. Megatron shook himself free and lead the young warrior to Hook's office. With its large window, they would remain in view of the other wounded and the team working as his medical staff, but a quiet conversation should remain unheard.

Inside, he pointed Sunstreaker to the nearest chair as he shut the door. "All right. Let me explain?"

Filthy and battered, Sunstreaker should not have been beautiful moving to sit in the chair. His sullen pout should not have been alluring. Megatron smothered the stir of his interest. As harsh as he might have been to Sideswipe, when the mech had been his prisoner, Megatron handled both with the care they deserved now. He had gotten them to think, and now he had them here.

Sunstreaker looked up at him, posture straight and forward; ready to attack again. "You want us or not?"

Megatron flared his armor at the demand, then rested his aft on Hook's desk. "I do want you."

"You think it makes you look big and nice, and we'll be _grateful_?" Sunstreaker demanded.

Megatron shot him a look. He wondered if Prime had looked down at one or both of them, like this, and expected just that. Pushing the thought away, Megatron said, "I don't want a mech in my bed because he feels _forced_. As I told Sideswipe, neither of you want me. If you came to me, and if you truly wanted me... I would be sorely tempted. You are beautiful. Not just in your bodies and in your minds, but in every motion and in your emotions. But I won't touch a mech that does not desire it."

"So you're playin' at being the good guy. Just wait us out, an' we'll fall flat, legs splayed for you, huh?" Sunstreaker growled, optics narrowing in anger.

"Not," Megatron said through ground denta, "unless you _want_ it. I get my pleasure from my _partner's_ , Sunstreaker. I am not waiting to drop a bomb on you. If you cannot believe I have that respect for my mechs, then I ask you to believe that I would not endanger my vision of Cybertron's future by harming mechs I count as its citizens!"

Unaccountably, Sunstreaker flinched back, and Megatron caught sight of Sideswipe echoing the movement through the window. Venting harshly Megatron leaned forward and rested a hand on Sunstreaker's shoulder. "Don't-- I know that those in authority have hurt you before. As defectors in the middle of my stronghold, I know you think I will make that call here now, too. But here is the point, Sunstreaker. Every mech flocking to my cause began a citizen of the old way. All of them have defected. Because I offer them dignity. I can't take _yours_ with one hand and offer it to them with another. I _can't_. If you came to me, and I felt your desire, heard it in your voice... Then I would accept you. One or both. But it isn't there _now_."

Sunstreaker hunched under his touch and looked up at Megatron, expression troubled. Watching the young mech's face carefully, Megatron lifted his hand to close gently over the elegant curve of Sunstreaker's jawline. Sunstreaker shuddered, but he didn't pull away--and Megatron wondered. Sunstreaker growled, "Megatron?"

"Go watch over your brother for me, Sunstreaker. You are warriors here. Respected mechs. Crimes committed against you are not your fault," Megatron said softly. " _If_ you change your mind, I will be waiting for you. For now, I most want you to remember that you are powerful."

Sunstreaker slumped when Megatron released him, then glared sharply up. Megatron held his smile in check. Sunstreaker would test his promise, but Megatron knew the interest was there. It was real, not a wishful dream of his own making. One day, Sunstreaker would come to him. And Sideswipe would not be far away. The golden twin climbed to his pedes, still sullen, and limped to the door. Megatron watched him brave Hook's domain to get close to Sideswipe. He watched the twins lace their fingers together before he finally relaxed and went back to the business of running a rebellion. He had much to think about.


	8. Slow Change - Megatron/Sunstreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G1-ish, NC-17-ish  
> Warnings/Content Advisory : mentions of past noncon
> 
> Notes : Follows [Choices](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/11314114), [Promises Made](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/12893290) and [Things Needed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13066888l)
> 
> For [Dracoqueen22](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22)

Strong fingers closed around his wrist, startling him out of his processor lock. Soundwave's compilation of reports, colored with Starscream's advice and commentary, snapped to the back in his priority queue, and his head came up, denta bared. Megatron jerked away from the hold and came half out of his chair, tense and angry, only to _focus_ on Sunstreaker, mirroring Megatron's own defensive movements. Megatron forced himself to relax; Sunstreaker remained half-crouched. The mech would never admit fear, though his body shivered. Megatron sighed.

Both twins had taken to skulking about--underfoot without ever being directly in the way. They stayed just out of reach, but often took it upon themselves to see that he remembered to have his own rations. To distract him and goad him toward recharge.

Megatron sat his aft back in the chair. Looking up at Sunstreaker, he held out a hand. Palm up, fingers spread. The lovely mech looked at it, unmoving save for that subtle tremor. Then, so very slowly, Sunstreaker lowered his guard and came forward. To Megatron's surprise, the other mech took his hand. Strong fingers brushed over the thick primary cable just exposed by the stretch of his hand before they closed lightly around his wrist. Megatron dropped his gaze to their hands, then he looked up and, one finger at a time, closed his hand to return the hold. Sunstreaker let him, and Megatron smiled. "Thank you, Sunstreaker. I have forgotten to eat and rest, haven't I?"

"Yeah. I worried." Sunstreaker sat on the edge of Megatron's desk. His optics stayed on their joined hands, and that fine tremor grew stronger. 

"Sunstreaker," Megatron said. Over bright optics lifted to meet Megatron's, and he rubbed the rough end of his thumb over the workings of Sunstreaker's wrist. The mech's ventilations hitched. Sunstreaker _wanted_ , and he feared that desire as he feared Megatron's. Megatron tightened his hold. "That is kind of you, Sunstreaker. I will stop for a rest. You may return to your free time."

Megatron released his hold on Sunstreaker's hand. Pushing his chair back, he climbed to his pedes. Two warm hands spread over his chest plating, and Megatron froze. He looked at Sunstreaker. Sunstreaker looked at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. Megatron waited until Sunstreaker's gaze dragged up his body to meet his. Fear pinched elegant features and brightened his optics. But Sunstreaker's gaze locked on his lips.

"Sunstreaker?"

"You said... You said if I wanted you..." Sunstreaker whispered.

"You're afraid."

"Fragger!" Hissing, Sunstreaker shoved Megatron back. Megatron stumbled, then snatched Sunstreaker's wrists to force the mech's hands to his desk. Sunstreaker wasn't a small mech, neither twin was, but Megatron massed so much more. He leaned over Sunstreaker, forcing the mech to lean back awkwardly over his desk. Cursing, Sunstreaker kicked at him with a curious lack of strength. The barest quavers of earlier became violent tremors.

"You _are_ afraid, Sunstreaker. You're afraid I'll use you. That I'll make the same demands you've come to me to stop. Because you've burned out your place with the Autobots, and you have no where else to go," Megatron whispered against Sunstreaker's audial. The mech's weak attacks stilled. Megatron released one hand cautiously to pull Sunstreaker tightly against him. Still shaking, the mech surprised Megatron by parting his legs, inviting Megatron closer. It made sense for Sunstreaker to test him, to demand dominance through his fear. The mech's body burned against his. "You are afraid of _me_ , Sunstreaker."

"Maybe," the mech admitted grudgingly. Sunstreaker did not like to be afraid. "But I... You said if I wanted you... I could... You said I could come to you."

"I did." Megatron eased his hold and lifted himself to meet Sunstreaker's gaze again, searching. The heat of Sunstreaker's body spoke oh so clearly of the mech's desire. His own bottled lust trickled through his lines, tried his control. His systems ran an insistent query, and he wanted so much to close the distance, to take what he was being offered. Lifting his arm, he molded his hand around Sunstreaker's jaw. He felt the mech's fear deepen and tightened his grip before Sunstreaker could pull away. Sunstreaker grabbed his wrist, fear and anger narrowing those optics.

Megatron bent down, touching his lips to Sunstreaker's chest plate. He explored the smooth surface all the way down and released Sunstreaker's jaw to push the mech down. Sunstreaker resisted, growling, until Megatron's mouth moved over the abdominal seam. The growl died in a gasp as Megatron moved lower. He purposefully bypassed the subtle mounding of the mech's spike housing to tease the mech's valve, offering Sunstreaker the illusion of dominance in this. Megatron knew it had not been offered to the mech before.

The mech gasped, legs spreading further under Megatron's hands. Triggered by arousal, Sunstreaker's array bared his valve, and Megatron teased the mech's thighs. He drew on old skills, old orders to seek out pleasure points Sunstreaker might not even be aware of. Sunstreaker dropped back to Megatron's desk, and his tremors gradually shifted character entirely. His hands closed tightly over Megatron's shoulders, clutching them, as Megatron worked his way toward his goal. When he finally licked over the wet valve, he trusted his choice.

Sunstreaker's moan echoed in Megatron's audials, rich and soothing to Megatron's own past, rattling around in his own processor. He had offered Sideswipe dignity in the brig. Sunstreaker asked without words for Megatron's care. So little. The old ways had so thoroughly broken their world. Pressing his tongue inside the mech's valve, then up over the sensitive node, Megatron knew he had them now. He could keep them, and Prime's mechs, already asking questions, would learn.


	9. Hourglass - Megatron/Sideswipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G1-ish, mentions of past noncon, explicit sticky
> 
> Notes : Follows [Choices](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/11314114), [Promises Made](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/12893290), [Things Needed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13066888l), and [Slow Change](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347884/chapters/13273684)
> 
> For [Dracoqueen22](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22)
> 
> Happy Birthday!

Soon after the twins' arrival, Megatron began to see their defensive acts for what they were. Sunstreaker snapped and snarled. He intended his well-founded vanity to shoot egos down, weaken would-be suitors (attackers) from within. To intimidate and overpower them before ever needing to lay a hand on a mech. Sideswipe kept mechs laughing; he kept them smiling and happy to be around him. No one wanted to end the party by upsetting the center of attention. Everybody's friend.

The rank and file never really noticed the flashes of depth beneath the surface. They missed the nervous fear watching them from Sunstreaker's glare. They never saw the angry darkness judging them behind Sideswipe's laughter. Just as well they hadn't, Megatron thought, when the twins' interest had turned personal. His command staff trusted his judgement. Mostly. Starscream expressed his doubts when the pair of defected Autobots first circled the Decepticon leader. Their gruff care had soothed his commander's doubts, until Megatron spent an evening beneath Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker had asked for dominance, that first time. In further practice, the golden twin craved the gentler side of his own submission. But his brother...

With the red twin riding his spike and pinning his hands above his head, the one coherent corner of Megatron's mind wondered if Starscream wasn't right to worry. Sideswipe arched over Megatron, denta scraping lightly over his throat. As violent a form as their coupling took, the red twin left no marks on Megatron's body. He never left Megatron wanting after taking his own pleasure. He used Megatron, but he treated the Decepticon leader with the care a lover deserved in bed as much as he did out of it.

Between the pair of them, it had grown to a heady feeling.

Sideswipe groaned into his throat, and his valve tightened around Megatron's spike. Close. So close now. Echoing the sound, Megatron bent his legs, giving himself more leverage to meet Sideswipe's eager movement. When the little lightning of overload released over the young mech's body, his biolights flickered, and Sideswipe's hands and denta tightened. He rode Megatron's needy bucking, lost to it, but before the bright arcs and deep shudders of pleasure quite faded, Sideswipe moved over him again. He lifted his head to whisper in Megatron's audials. Nonsense words, for all the general could spare attention to them. His body took it as one more data byte of pleasure; the one that shoved him into the firestorm of his own overload.

He rode the crest back down to Sideswipe resting on top of Megatron still, but the young mech had released the general's wrists to hold him, like something precious. Like the red devil held his brother. Megatron lifted his arms and, trepidation welling in his spark with a deep, unfamiliar warmth, stroked the back of Sideswipe's head. He caressed one horn with a rough thumb and listened to the young mech sigh in content. While he reached for a hand towel, to deal with the sticky mess between their bodies, Megatron knew Starscream's fears hadn't been misplaced. He looked down at the mech he embraced, and he began to worry.


	10. Pity - Sideswipe, Barricade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bayverse. Maybe some robot gore.
> 
> Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Sideswipe/Barricade: found you

Cat and mouse, the planetary natives called it. The comparison to the sleek organic hunters pleased him; even the small ones regularly fought beyond their size class. Comparing his enemies to the equivalent of a scrap drone also pleased him. Particularly this one. It slunk and hid better than any other Decepticons that had reached this planet. Smart, this one. Sideswipe hadn't even gotten a look at the mech.

After a time, Sideswipe thought his target behaved less like a rodent and more like a wounded cat. And that pleased Sideswipe not at all.

Old lessons rattled to the surface of his memory cortex as he finished baiting his trap. He knew his prey starved on planetary fuel. Cybertronian systems needed pure refined energon to thrive, whatever slag might work temporarily. Over the weeks since Sideswipe settled into this ramshackle warehouse in an abandoned stretch of some Midwestern city, he had made sure to gradually reduce his guard. The more comfortable he looked, the more likely his prey's desperation would overtake caution. He never strayed far from his temporary shelter. He wanted to look lazy and frustrated.

He did feel frustrated. If not for that old mentor's voice echoing through his head, Sideswipe might have shot up the city looking for this one, lone Decepticon. Patience, his memory said while he growled in agitation. Have patience, and the better plan.

When his better mousetrap finally snapped shut, Sideswipe still had to chase his prey down through his warehouse. Black and white with a dark, dark blue splashed randomly across his broken frame, Sideswipe knew the mech; they had thought him dead. Sideswipe smirked at the sharp denta Barricade bared. He lifted his blade.

He stared down at the mech, tracing the dried rivulets of energon and the damage already corrupted by rust. Built in the same class of frontline warriors as many of the Decepticons, Sideswipe knew the ins and outs of lethal damage. He knew pain like an old lover. That much-missed voice in his head told him that pity had been left out of the warrior class deliberately. Some few learned, and those very few had sided with their sheared cog of a Prime.

Back then, Sideswipe had told his mentor where to put that thought. Sideswipe hadn't joined for _pity_.

Sideswipe snicked his blade back home. Barricade snarled about Autobot stupidity, then yelped as Sideswipe lifted him and carried his heavy aft back to his stores. After restraining the mech, Sideswipe ignored every growl and bite of too sharp denta to force a quarter tank of real energon down Barricade's intake. The broken Decepticon stared at him, gagging and gasping on the floor when Sideswipe finally ended the struggle. Too much, and Barricade's tank would purge. Best to do this slowly.

"Dragging...this...out? How... How, pathetic," Barricade shuddered. His frame squealed as he curled on himself. Maybe the mech thought about running, but they both knew it would only delay the inevitable.

"There's no glory killing someone already dying."

Barricade's glare made him laugh.

"You've been leaking a long time, mech. You're critical. Maybe I can feed you enough, or maybe I can't and you die on my floor. Be more fun if you actually had the reserves to fight back, though," he lied. Lies always came easily to Sideswipe; Sunstreaker had been the honest one. The echo of his mentor suggested Barricade needed rest. He needed to pour more fuel down the mech in a couple of hours. Sideswipe stood to check Barricade's restraints again.

"Fragger."

"Maybe later, mech. You're a too ugly right now. But the chains are attractive. Can't have you escaping before I torture you s'more, right?"

Sideswipe's hollow laugh fooled no one.


	11. Volume - Jazz/Prowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings : Robot gore and implied death  
> Notes : Set in Bayverse. Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Optimus Prime/Ironhide--failure to communicate

The hands on his frame knew their business. They righted bent edges and capped off torn power conduits. They found leaks and tied them off. Not Ratchet, then, he decided, before he opened his one working optic. Ironhide's unlovely face scrunched in concentration as he worked. Optimus Prime closed his optic, certain of his safety, at least, if not his future attractiveness.

"You're up. Not gonna talk to me out here in the real world, are you? I shouldn't be doing this, you know. I should just let you bleed out or burn out, whichever happens first," Ironhide muttered. Optimus felt the weighted gaze on his face. He didn't move, but he did open his optic to look at Ironhide. "You're a great one for running, Prime."

_That_ made him spit static. His vocalizer hitched and spat when he tried again. He glared as Ironhide chortled. The old warrior paused to inspect the deep gash across his left clavicle strut and beneath. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Lines are severed, Prime. He got you good, this time. Need Ratchet to repair that one. This is ridiculous. You can't save him, and he's killing us. He's killing us all. This isn't a misunderstanding anymore."

Optimus flinched and closed his working optic.

"You can't hide from the truth forever, Prime. If you don't open your damn processor and see what's going on, we're all doomed. He's not our protector, _Prime_. He gave that up for his god. All we got left is you. And you're failing us." Ironhide yanked a sizzling cable viciously, and Optimus tried to snarl.

"Don't gimme that look. Don't _you_ dare. We lost half of our force this time. Half, Prime," Ironhide's voice hitched. Optimus's working optic widened. Ironhide stared at his own hands. Optimus finally saw the subtle variations in color. Not all the stains on Ironhide's hands came from Prime himself. Ironhide had found others first. "Half our force didn't make it, and if you dare complain I hurt you, I'll just kill you myself."

Optimus struggled to lift his left arm. It hard no grip, when he wrapped his fingers around Ironhide's arm. Ironhide snarled at him. Optimus struggled to get a word out. Just one name, because he didn't know what else would send Ironhide into this cold rage. Ironhide yanked his arm free and continued to make his rough field repairs. Optimus forced himself to try to speak again, but Ironhide continued, "You're going to end this war, Prime. Now. Kill him. Destroy his maniacs. Or I will. If I have to go through you, so slagging be it. Do you hear me, you scrap pile? Am I getting through to you yet?"

"Pr-- Prk?"

A vicious backhand cut his malformed question off, leaving Optimus stunned. His optic went dark.

"Don't you ever say that name to me, Optimus Prime. Not until you've done what you need to do. Not until this _ends_. Do you understand me? You've been slagging us for your moral high ground. _Save what's left of us._ " Ironhide's fury bled out of the whiteness his strike left. Optimus cycled the optic closed, then he opened it again. Ironhide still glared down at him. "Do you hear me this time, Optimus _Prime_?"

Optimus flinched. "Hrk--"

"That better be agreement, _Prime_. Or I will kill you."


	12. Resources - Mikaela Banes, Laserbeak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robot gore, Bayverse
> 
> Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Mikaela/Laserbeak: eliminating the witnesses

Setting the hammer back, she kept her eyes on the blot soaring overhead. Half of her hoped the thing circling her hideout was a real bird. Hunger crawled up from her gut, and the people hiding in the forgotten bomb shelter with her starved, too. In the wake of Chicago, no one took chances, though. And the 'bird' moved too fast.

Training her shotgun on the 'bird', she waited. Shotguns with buckshot promised violent death on anything close enough, but Mikaela knew the limits of a shotgun's range. She forced her body to stay relaxed as the creature spun in tighter circles overhead. The angular aspect told her all she needed to know. Now Mikaela let the tension build and hold her steady. Lifting the shotgun, she squinted along the barrel. Overhead the metallic creature's tight spiral lowered. Not directly over her, she determined. That worked in her favor. Maybe that meant another cache of survivors. Maybe it meant resources.

Either way, something to save. With the world broken, every little thing mattered.

The creature's circling stopped, and Mikaela knew time had run out. She took the shot, and the pair of dogs at her feet jumped. The creature shrieked and dropped. Not dead, she cursed to herself. Breaking from her cover, Mikaela glanced down to make sure the dogs followed her. Both padded ahead quickly, sniffing. It had taken time to work out how to train them to find scents. Their dogs found energon.

Mikaela wondered if any of the Autobots still lived, but it wasn't safe to bet on it. Safer to shoot first. Following the dogs through the brush, she stumbled into the broken street of a subdivision. So close, she thought, guess we should've moved on. The 'Cons looked still, sometimes. Moving quickly through the tall grass to the house line, she continued to follow the dogs.

The animals rounded the street corner and began to bark. She let them. Ducking between the last dilapidated house and its ramshackle neighbor, Mikaela tested the fence. After hanging the shot gun strap over her shoulder, she slowly climbed up as the shrieking creature screamed back at the dogs. Mikaela grabbed the low roof and pulled herself up. The dogs would stay back and work together to harass the creature. For a while. On the roof, Mikaela crawled up to the peak, then followed it to the noise.

Staying low, she looked over the edge long enough to find the purple stains of its faction. Mikaela inched her shotgun forward, watching the bird-creature snap at the dog. It lunged suddenly, beak snapping over a dog's torso. Mikaela snapped up, brought the shotgun to bear on the metal nightmare's head, and fired just behind the optics. Its scream mingled with the dog's and Mikaela fired again. The lights died, and the creature fell.

Mikaela scrambled down the way she had gotten up and ran around the house. The surviving dog whined beside the body of the other. She rubbed her face, told herself she wasn't crying, and stubbornly marched forward. Dead Cybertronians meant resources to be used.


	13. Burn - Barricade, Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bayverse continuity. No real warnings at all.
> 
> Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Bumblebee x Barricade = Crash

_April showers bring May flowers_ , went the refrain. Bumblebee stood with his hands turned up to catch the cool, falling rain. Optics closed, fingers spread to feel each droplet slide between them. This subtle difference between species had made him jealous. Cybertronians had their _expressions_ of grief. But this release and cleansing stood absent from their build.

Holding the humans each in turn as they had passed from his life, Bumblebee had wished for it, more and more. This one thing. He stood in the rain with his palms upturned and his sensors straining their parameters to feel the wash, and he tried not to shake.

Instead, he felt the other's optics locked onto his form. It no longer mattered who watched him. Who stood too close. Fifty-five years proved too short a time. And now he could not even do this in peace.

A sound like laughter clattered at him, through the rain. "You can't even visit his grave, can you? You'd just tear it all up. Small as you are, you're _still_ too big. I told you not to adopt one. I _warned_ you they didn't live long enough. They're _insects_.".

"No," Bumblebee croaked back, subdued by more than his own difficulty speaking. "They aren't insects."

"But they _are_ , Bumblebee. To us, they're like their own slagging mayflies are to them. You were the sucker tried to make a whole family of them pets. Told you."

"Why are you here?" Bumblebee asked. "Why bother to even laugh at me? You've got a pass. You got your deal."

"Where else do I have to go? We're alone on this rock."

Closing his optics, Bumblebee rocked on his pedes. "I hate you."

"Not as much as you hate yourself," Barricade sneered, side mirrors flicking.

Whirling around, he glared at the two-toned cruiser parked on the road just yards away. The laughter came again. "It's true. You're standing out here because they don't want our kind tearing up their graveyard. Break the stones and tear up the dirt. Crush their decayed bodies. All you want is to mourn, and you can't even do that right, can you? For a _bug_. You hate yourself more than you'll ever hate me."

"Shut up!"

"No. You'll hear me. You'll hear me for the rest of _our_ lives, and that's more important. Your people are still alive," Barricade continued, "Your _people_ still live, and you're wasting time at the grave of an insect."

"He was my friend!"

"And he's _dead_! Get a new one, if it bothers you. But your people should have always been your priority. This is what's _wrong_ with you and your Prime. You put everyone else first, and we were fighting to live."

"Shut up!"

"No. You're going to hear me. You never mourned for one of _us_ like you are _right now_ for that worthless piece of animated water and dirt. Someone has to hear us."

"You have your deal--"

"And I'm still watching your damn kind run our race into oblivion. What good does life do me, either? Be kinder to kill me."

"Is that what you want?" Bumblebee whispered. "Me to kill you?"

"No. You wouldn't mourn _me_." Slowly, Barricade turned on his wheels. Bumblebee watched him, feeling the rain slide down his body. It stuck him, hard and painfully, that Barricade said nothing but the truth. Even now, he cared less for Barricade's existence than for the human now buried beneath their planet's surface. He wanted to lash out at Barricade as he knelt on the road, as Barricade drove around him, and he couldn't.


	14. Pretty Things - Thundercracker/Sunstreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Metalloprotease (Hazelnut79); Tumblr meme prompt: things you said that I wasn't meant to hear
> 
> Calling this an AU to Contracted as of now.  
> G1, contracted prostitution

Purposefully choosing the narrow servants' stairs, Sunstreaker slipped out of Thundercracker's demanding grab. Shouts followed him down, but not the seeker himself. Slagpile couldn't _fit_.

The narrow stairs bottomed out in the kitchen, and Sunstreaker stumbled into into the pit-forsaken gardener. Snarling at the insecticon, he shoved the startled hulk out of his way. Hardshell caught his shoulder. Maybe the stupid sheared cog tried to ask what was wrong. It didn't matter. The lift opened, releasing an angry Thundercracker into the kitchen. Twisting, Sunstreaker kicked the gardener and tried to run for the stairs again.

The damned seeker caught him, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall. He pinned Sunstreaker with his greater weight, then caught the hands trying to wedge the both off the wall. Thundercracker stretched him out, pressing hot and heavy against his back, a leg between his. So familiar, so normal. And cold, and twisted.

Sunstreaker cursed Thundercracker; name, lineage, and spark. He felt Sideswipe, felt his brother's reaction echo his own. The broken noise escaping his vocalizer hurt worse than Starscream's words, and those burned into Sunstreaker's memory like the hot slag from one of the watching Hardshell's projects burned into plating.

_"He is pretty thing, isn't he? Yes, he and his brother both. They cleaned up nicely and they fitted right in. If more grounders just accepted their place like these two..."_

Didn't mean anything on the surface. But it meant everything with Sunstreaker standing there, with all the fine things in life surrounding them. And _that_. The price written in a kind of slavery. Family, they had said.

_"Honestly, he was easy to train. He takes praise like candy. It was easy to get him on level with others. The lack of a real pedigree hardly matters when you look for eagerness and intelligence."_

Sunstreaker had known. He had. Sideswipe's flashes of unease. Thundercracker's proprietary touch. Starscream's smirking hauteur. Skywarp's condescending roughness. He had known, and he had blinded himself for all that very blindness bought.

A soft bed. Clean fuel, _enough_ fuel. The education poverty had denied them. His _art_. Pretty things.

Just like him.


	15. Other Side - Sideswipe, Sunstreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Dracoqueen22, tumblr prompt: privilege

Sucking at his thumb, he pressed tighter into the leeside of the dumpster. Smudged up like this, no one would see him. No one noticed one more dark patch of shadow, flashes of yellow or not. He picked another of the soft, melty things out of the box as Sideswipe finally snuck around the dumpster. Keeping his voice low lest the building security hear them, he grumbled, "All right, what is it? Primus! Where'd you get--"

"Shh! C'mon, eat 'em quick." Sunstreaker punched his brother in the hip and yanked his brother down beside him. "Saw some mechs fightin' earlier. One tossed 'em over on the walk--"

"Fighters?" his brother groaned. He took the offered box and popped one in his mouth. He glanced at the street and the walk between the lines of little cafes and shops. "Not exactly like home..."

"Nah. The pretty end of town doesn't get fights, Si. Cheatin' mate. I got eyed, though. Eat them, before the smelters show up." Sunstreaker muttered back, taking another one. In spite of his advice, he sucked on the candy, savoring the rare treat. He licked his fingers again. Blissful, he added, "No more shelters."

"Yeah." Sideswipe took another out, one optics still on the alley entrance. "You ever... You ever think what it'd be like?"

"What _what_ would be like?" Sunstreaker frowned at his brother.

"Live out there. In a place with a door, not the blanks hung under the Lowbridge exit," Sideswipe said. "I've wondered. Work in a big shop, buy you these before they hit ground."

"Si, that's crazy."

Sideswipe looked at him, face dreamy and sad. "Yeah. It is. C'mon. Let's hurry."


	16. Oblivious - Smokescreen, Bluestreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Dracoqueen22, tumblr prompt: disdain

With the animation capacity of the basic ball joint and the young mech's occasional bouts of extreme awkwardness, the only real surprise came from the sheer _noise_ of the stainless steel tumblers scattering across the stone tile floors. But no one asked Smokescreen. The chorus of curses all around the huge conference hall made him snort with laughter. Which he swallowed as Bluestreak managed to step on the mass rolling under him. Designed for human use with the Autobots' likenesses etched on them, the things _crunched_ under Bluestreak's backpedaling.

And, in a less than pleasant side effect, Bluestreak's sudden graceless tap dancing caused the delicate flooring material to crack in dizzying web patterns. Smokescreen had to tiptoe up to the mech, stepping on no few tumblers himself, catch Bluestreak's elbow, and stop the mech's agitated flapping.

The kid glared at the mess he had created, muttering under his breath. Smokescreen eyed the flooring between them and the door, and he decided they could make it without cracking more. Honestly, why the humans didn't plan these things in a Cybertronian-proof building escaped him. They changed into cars. They massed about the same as those lifeless machines. Focusing all that weight on a relatively small, less than cushioning point broke human things. Happened every time.

He escorted Bluestreak out again, careful now to place each step slowly and precisely. The humans tried to look down their noses at the pair, but when the target stood easily twice and half again one's own height... Well, Smokescreen admitted had had learned quickly not to ask about the bare patch of skin across many of the boxier models' heads. And the one time he'd asked one of the rounder ones, it had slapped his hip and Optimus had lectured him about fragile strut systems in the humans' hands.

"All right, time for some clean air, eh?" Smokescreen patted Bluestreak on the back outside the building, grinning at the young mech's glare.

"You know, I never did like that. Why do you do that? I'm not just here for you to knock around or laugh at or to entertain you or anything else. Stop!" Bluestreak swatted his hand back when Smokescreen tried to pat his arm again. "I said I didn't like it. Do you even listen? I'm not just talking to hear myself."

"Ow, hey. Bluestreak--" Smokescreen began, rubbing his hand.

"You aren't listening," Bluestreak growled. Fists on his hips, he looked like a dark Prowl, and Smokescreen made a face. "Stop that! Stop looking at me like I'm some kinda goofy kid. I'm a soldier, and I gotta higher kill count than _you_ , Smokescreen."

Smokescreen frowned at the kid, watching his wings flutter in their high, forward tilt. They had, come to think of it, been in that stressed, angry position all evening. A bit belatedly, Smokescreen asked, "Is something wrong, Bluestreak?"

Shoulders and wings quivering into even tighter angle, Bluestreak drew himself up, chin lifting, and looked down at Smokescreen before spinning on his heel and mindfully walking back into the conference. Smokescreen stared after him. Bluestreak hadn't said anything new. Nothing Smokescreen hadn't known. What was the kid's problem? He watched, through the open doors, as Bluestreak bent to help clean up the tumblers he had smashed. Bluestreak could be so touchy, sometimes. Ah, well. The kid would cool off.


	17. Applications - Ultra Magnus/Sentinel Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animated. Been a couple of years since I've watched the show, so... Yeah.
> 
> Written for the Dreamwidth [tf_rare_pairing community](http://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/) for the prompt: Ultra Magnus / Sentinel Prime / earning your keep

"On your knees."

Sentinel folded up, desperate and afraid. Optics wide, he stared up at the one mech that could save or destroy his life. The screech of his clenching fists against the floor echoed in his brain like Optimnus and Elita's cries. It couldn't be _his_ fault. He had his whole career mapped out, and _he_ would be Magnus one day... This couldn't be happening to him. The current wielder of the Magnus Hammer walked back around his deck. He grunted as his dropped into his chair. The old mech rubbed a hip with one hand, and only then looked up at Sentinel. Ultra Magnus crooked a finger at him.

"Crawl over here."

Tripping over his hands, his knees, and his own fear, Sentinel crawled on his belly across the office floor. All the way to Ultra Magnus' pedes. There, Sentinel hunkered down, and began to beg.It didn't matter what happened to Optimus. It didn't matter whatever had happened to Elita. _This_ could not happen to _him_. He couldn't be scrapped. But here he groveled on the floor in front of Cybertron's highest officer. And the contempt in that dark gaze promised him a turn in the smelter.

"Open your mouth."

Speech stalled, and Sentinel dared to look up. Desperate hope flared in spark. It stuttered into confusion. Ultra Magnus sat back in his chair, smirking, with his hands full of his own spike. Fat and eager, but showing age as much as the rest of the mech in wear and faded colors. Freeing one hand, the old mech crooked his finger again. The other pumped his own spike, slow and deliberate. And Sentinel understood. Ultra Magnus offered him a chance to earn his reprieve. Optimus and Elita--the whole thing swept aside, but Sentinel's career set back on course. And with such a boost.

"Well? Hurry up."

Crawling the last feet to the Magnus, Sentinel sat up and pushed the mech's knees apart. He wiggled forward between them, then lowered his head to taste the beading fluid at the tip. The taste nearly made him purge, but Elita's voice echoed up from his mind. Sentinel took the spike head in his mouth, sucking it like candy before forcing himself to swallow as much of it as he could get in his mouth. It didn't matter as long as the whole thing disappeared. If his career advanced, and nothing could touch him again. The Magnus' hands wrapped around the back of his head, groaning, and forced him to take the spike deeper, down into his intake. Choking, he grabbed the chair's arms to brace himself. He kept his lips tight, tried to suck. The old mech dragged his face all the way to his pelvis, and Sentinel's vision swam. Charge released over the mech, finally, but the Magnus held him, hard enough to bruise. The spike choking him pumped down his intake. It clogged against the protective spiral valve there, and tried to come up, and this new taste made him gag. And nothing could come up.

" _Take_ it, mech."

Desperate, Sentinel overrode the reflex and opened the way to his tank. It took everything he had not to purge, now, with the spitting head rubbing against things not meant to be touched like this. Finally, the hands holding his head down, killing him, dragged him back off. Sentinel remembered to purse his lips and suck. Again, nausea curdled his tank, but freed from the mech's spike, meeting the smirk and half-closed optics, he knew he had what he wanted.

"You're _mine_ , now."

And all his problems would disappear. 


	18. Calculated Chaos - Jazz/Prowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity: G1-ish, WOC-ish  
> Warnings/Content Advisory: mindgames  
> Prompt: response to dragonofdispair's prompt

Everything in the world had its value. Not just in shanix, not just in weight, not just in mind. Everything had a value that Prowl could weigh, meet and then pocket. Sparks had their value as well, but Prowl had dismissed it as negligible. Mechs cared so little for their own, it hardly mattered. Until Jazz. The one mech he wanted to have, and the one spark Prowl had no way to purchase. If Prowl had believed in romance, he might have been afraid.

Prowl believed in numbers.

No one's tool, no one's toy--Jazz's field might have pulsed with need and lust in the dark, but beneath it had been that unbreakable core. Jazz would not be used. And Prowl had no coin equal to that price, whatever desire it ignited inside his own spark. Neither favors nor machinations helped. Holding Jazz would never get Prowl what he wanted. Releasing him... Releasing him created the slimmest chance in Prowl's tactical feed that might draw Jazz back to him. One dim, far off thread in a tapestry drenched in need. And a sea of chances he would never have the mech at all.

Scheming for centuries, Prowl burned resources to watch Jazz in ways meant to be missed. Overlooked. Recognizing the level of his own obsession did nothing to change it. Weaving a most unhealthy pattern in the scattered cogs of Cybertron, Prowl had known where his own best chance for survival rested, and that added fuel to his compulsive watch. When Nightwatch lay strewn across his most known office, half of the threads leading to an Autobot victory had gone dark. Even when Jazz had stepped forward, the chance of victory barely increased. Jazz did not have the connections. Not yet.

If he wanted to save anyone, Prowl had to move.

The drones had been an insult; an unexpected insult. They had driven him to hide, and his percentages decreased again. Jazz might have wanted him, then, but not as much as Jazz feared him. The lines of chance shifted in response. To escape meant survival, the numbers told him. And make that escape would mean to bomb one last bridge. Desperation welled up, flooding in from underused emotional circuitry when Jazz stepped out. Meeting the mech's gaze across his own weapon, Prowl could not calculate a future in which he pulled the trigger. One by one, hopeful projections, laced with his desire, went dark in his mind. He let himself focus everything he had left on Jazz and turned that analytical imagination to what might have been in a waking dream

And he listened. He looked Jazz in the optic to be offered a pit-forsaken deal. All these centuries, and he had not found a price for Jazz. Jazz had found his. For Prowl's service to the Autobot's leader, Jazz would give himself. Between one spark pulse and the next, the hopeful projections died. They reshaped themselves into a reality shades away from anything Prowl had planned. Death riddled through his cortex. But one oh-so-important thread burned to the end; it burned _with_ his, if he did this one thing. His to be had, but never won. Yes, Jazz had found his price. If he could not have what he wanted, Prowl would accept what he needed.

Prowl went to his knees.


	19. Long Way Down - Swindle, Ratchet, Knock Out, Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shattered Glass continuity, Prime-ish?  
> Characters : Swindle, Swindle, Knock Out, Vortex, Onslaught, Soundwave, Steve, Ratchet  
> Warnings/Content Advisory: robot gore
> 
> For 12drakon, response to a prompt.

"Couldn't you sober him up?" Knockout hissed unevenly. Onslaught's field burned with annoyance.

Apprehension rising, Swindle glanced around from his position as rear guard in time to see Vortex shake Knock Out's shoulder lightly. As dangerous as radio communication was, verbal communication this close to an Autobot stronghold spelled disaster. But Soundwave's shoulders shook with silent laughter. No doubt that was Knock Out's problem. Better than the giggling of before, and still as likely to get them into trouble. The surviving Decepticons all had their problems, though. Swindle understood maybe a little better than they did. Like Knock Out and that oddly-named mech they were on this rescue run for, Swindle didn't come from this... This version of the story. But in _his_ reality, the Autobots had locked him up as a frameless spark before the factions had split in open warfare. He had known them capable of cruelty. No better, to him, than his own Megatron had been. He glanced at this-world version of himself, then his gaze drifted over the other visible team members before returning to his watch.

A nagging sensation pulsed through his lines. Not _fear_ ; terror, he knew, and it colored all his thoughts. He knew this feeling, too, if he could not name it, and almost he begged this-world Onslaught to abort. The _quiet_ as they breached the complex, as they worked through the corridors. When his lover, his other self, pinged the first echo, he answered. One by one, they all did. Knock Out's erratic, too strong signal made him cringe.

The medic's own injuries _should_ have benched him. His involvement with his 'Steve' should have benched him. The Decepticons wanted so much to help. Turning, Swindle stepped forward, wrapped an arm around Knock Out's waist and hugged the mech tightly. The medic froze, and Swindle released him with an apologetic grin. The medic felt nice to hold, though now this-world Swindle frowned at him.

Soundwave's sing-song crossed their comms, and Swindle reached out a hand to calm Knock Out. At point, Vortex shrugged in apology as he hacked the door. Intel cited this as the doctor's evil lair--a thing Swindle had attributed to human villains. But he had done the same with the concept of Hell before, too.

Then he had been shown images of some of Ratchet's victims. Talked to the one survivor the Decepticons had. Hell simply existed in an alternate dimension.

The door snapped back, Vortex jerked upright, and Swindle knew something was _wrong_. He hauled up as excitement curled up with panic and hope, and he looked in on the evil lair and tried to make sense of what he saw. Armor plating scattered all over the smeared floor. Exposed cables hung limp, dangling from the joints they had been left attached. Hoses left poorly clamped dangled by them. Struts sawn partially through creaked as the mech tried to move. The thick plating of the mech's spark had been removed--by cutting or by melting. It left the spark exposed to the open air. But they didn't know the face. It wasn't Steve.

"Knock Out! Hello! Swindle! Ugh... guys? Would you join us for a cuppa high grade?"

Healthy and whole, Steve stepped into view, arms up. Knock Out limped forward before Swindle could catch him. The medic grabbed Steve, pulling the vehicon into a tight embrace. "Steve! You can speak again!"

Steve's arms wrapped around the Decepticon medic, tight, and Knock Out hissed, struggling.

"Greetings, Knock Out. Vortex. _Miscellaneous_ ," Ratchet drawled from a desk smeared with internal fluids. Swindle's optics jumped back to Steve, and he knew _this_ world's Vortex didn't know what that glowing spark prison on the Autobot medic's was. But a glass of bright, bright high grade sparkled in Ratchet's hands. For a moment, Swindle hoped the Autobot thought they were a dream. He grabbed Soundwave, hissing with fear. Ratchet laughed, "Jamming my comms, Sounders? Okay, then. Cheers."

Yanking Soundwave around, Swindle cursed and called back, "Smells like a trap, Onslaught!"

The big mech turned, Swindle saw him and his own lover, this world's Swindle, turn as well, but not in time. Knock Out screeched in pain behind him, and Swindle threw Soundwave's unbalanced weight through the closing door. Ratchet's laughter sank claws into Swindle's mind. Vortex's cooling system cycled on hard, and he whirled around with his weapon up and hot.

And Swindle knew it was already too late.


	20. Hunter-Seeker Algorithm - Prowl, Lockdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity: G1-ish, IDW-ish ...?  
> Characters : Prowl, Lockdown  
> Warnings/Content Advisory: mild violence  
> response to Rizobact's prompt

The soft echo of steps followed him down the corridor, but when Prowl looked back, he saw nothing. He raised his auxiliary panels, hoping to catch a vibration or residual heat signature. Perhaps the straining edge of an electromagnetic field. Nothing revealed itself, but Prowl had _heard_ the steps.

After hours in the upper levels of the night club supposedly headlining an underground gladiatorial arena, Prowl should have been alone but for the security guards. Ill-trained, unintelligent, and without a shred of imagination--those stayed strictly by the entrances rather than patrolling the building. Prowl doubled and triple checked his observations before acting on them. And now...

Now, he felt the weight of optics his advanced sensor suite could not find. Shadows stretched and sharpened as Prowl diverted the resources to bring his sensor suite fully online. Locking his personality matrix to a holding position freed the necessary virtual memory for his full tactical network to come online as well. Flicking his wings in at a _specific_ rate gave him a faint clicking, too high for most mech's audioreceptors to pick up, and he used the sound to create a virtual map of the corridor as he resumed his casual walk.

When he had moved a few yards down, a mech's shape emerged from one of the cross corridors, and Prowl sped the rapid vibration of his wings. More information about the shape of the mech returned, and Prowl pulled reference points of the mech's frame calculated as unique or at least rare by the tactical network. Applying them to a search of his own memory files of every mech he had met previously, Prowl paused but not at the door he had originally planned. Freeing the newly enslaved mechs being kept on this level would create targets. Prowl could not guarantee their safety with him now. Instead, he paused at the office door of the procurer, and he set his hand over it. Snaking his secondary data access cable down to wiggle beneath the surface of the lock, Prowl began to hack into its systems.

His search returned a match, and Prowl froze. His tactical network resolved the data conflict by extrapolating an escape. Lockdown did have the needed skills. Slowing his wings to their previous level, Prowl waited as Lockdown now stalked closer and considered his best options. Capturing the mech here created too much risk to him, and he felt that fighting the mech produced much the same results. Some kind of confrontation was now unavoidable, however, and he had to know if the mech worked under the employ of the syndicate housed in this building. Likely, since the mech's original contract with the city of Praxus no longer existed. A fight and capture it would have to be.

Balancing his needs, Prowl yanked his hand free of the lock, sacrificing the cable with a sharp pain, spun down into a crouch facing Lockdown, and launched himself at the mech's torso. The mech cursed as Prowl crashed into him and wrapped around his body. Folding his wings high and back, Prowl kept Lockdown from grabbing them for leverage. Tagging Lockdown's prior personal threats to him for adjudication later, he moved his hand up quickly and brought out his primary data cable. He knew his hacking skills to be superior to Lockdown's last known abilities. His cable sunk home with a soft _snick_ , and Lockdown snarled, trying to break Prowl's hold or throw him off. The virtual battle proved less uneven than anticipated, but Prowl still proved superior. On breaking down Lockdown's firewalls and freezing the mech's joints, Prowl forced his way into the mech's memory cortex.

The fantasies interwoven between the mech's every thought proved difficult to disengage, but Prowl found no evidence of the mech's employment here. Lockdown had simply followed him with the intent to overpower and capture. While that meant the slaves would not be used against him, the discovery left Prowl unable to simply kill the mech and be done with it. Freeing the slaves would have left enough clues, but even destroying the mech's memory cortex might eventually lead the syndicate back to Prowl. Lockdown had connected his image with Prowl's in the public mind, as Jazz had also connected himself to Prowl.

That thought drove a suggestion from his tactical network, and Prowl searched the mech's memory again; this time for references to Jazz. Even without the weight of the emotions themselves to push him, Prowl knew he wanted to kill Lockdown for what he found. Prowl's ethical coding forbid he kill the mech, and also prevented him from tampering with Lockdown's memories. But he could and did force a data packet across their connection that forced the mech into a full reboot cycle. Prowl had just enough time, now, to take Lockdown outside.

Breaking his silence with his partner, Prowl summoned Bluestreak not to their rendezvous but to Prowl's entry point into the building. Disengaging the data cable, Prowl lowered his auxiliary panels and hauled Lockdown up over his shoulders. Bluestreak had disobeyed, sneaking in to meet him, but Prowl ignored it for the moment. Hanging Lockdown between them sped up Lockdown's removal from the building. Bluestreak and he hauled Lockdown all the way to the medical team waiting on standby. Not an arresting officer and detention vehicle, but the medics obeyed his commands to sedate Lockdown and keep him there. Prowl's window of opportunity for freeing the slaves had closed, and as Prowl brought his personality matrix back online, anger washed through him, and a living terror.

" _Jazz_." Prowl shuddered, staggering with reaction, and rested a hand on Bluestreak's shoulder. "I have to go home--can you get him back to the district headquarters without me? Jazz is in danger--"

"Of course, I can. Go. I'll handle it," Bluestreak said. "I'll call in back up, okay? Don't... Don't do anything dangerous."

Prowl stepped out to the road without answering and folded down into his alt mode, and he sped away.


	21. Message from the Author

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having discussed this for a while and debating internally at length, I am going to begin breaking up Broken Windows into smaller, easier to digest chunks. Before it gets any more unwieldy.
> 
> The migration has started, so if you don't find what you were looking for here, please follow the series link! It's been given its own heading now.
> 
> \--Lynn

Thank you for your patience!


End file.
